


Three Times Coulson Gives Daisy His Jacket (And One Time She Takes It)

by RowboatCop



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Daisy in Coulson's suit jacket, Dom Skye | Daisy Johnson, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Oral Sex, and porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:57:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5184566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does what it says on the tin. A bit of angst and fluff and porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times Coulson Gives Daisy His Jacket (And One Time She Takes It)

1

They climb out of Lola and stand, sort of helpless, not sure what their next move is supposed to be. Lola’s tires all sit at the wrong angle, and Coulson doesn’t understand how the parking attendant isn’t more bothered by the obvious bullet holes.

But they’re alive, still standing, though they’re both unsteady on their feet. 

And it’s only because he remembers his own first jump, only because he knows exactly what she must be feeling, that he’s able to be there to catch her when her knees give out.

“Shit,” she mumbles against his shoulder as he pulls her body up against his.

“We fell quite a distance,” he whispers into the top of her head. “It’s normal to be dizzy.” 

“It’s more than that,” he hears, whispered somewhere near his neck.

He can feel her swallow against his shoulder, and her her whole body sort of heaves like she might be sick before she settles. 

“I need,” she pulls back, but keeps a hand on his arm for stability. “I think I need to lie down.” 

The closest hotel probably isn’t their best option for any kind of long term situation, but he can feel how close Skye is to losing it — whether it’s her lunch or the tight grip on her emotions or something even more scary, he’s not sure. 

So he gets them a room, nothing fancy, just two queen beds with ratty duvet covers, a threadbare armchair, and a battered old desk in the corner. 

Skye immediately closes herself in the bathroom, and he can hear her vomit — heaves and coughs and splashes into the toilet. 

He’s incredibly uncertain of his role, of whether he should knock and try to help her or leave her be, and he sort of paces at the foot of one of the queen beds for a moment.

After five minutes, he can still hear her, heaving even though there’s nothing coming out, and he makes a decision — grabs the ice bucket and his room key and goes to find the vending machines. 

Once he’s away from her, once he has a chance to think beyond the immediate here-and-now for the first time since they got back from Portland to an empty base, he starts thinking about a lot of things that he had very carefully blocked out.

Things that will make him have that freakout he promised Agent Triplett was going to come.

Like that Grant Ward had been hiding, a sheep in the herd, for months, and that he had gotten close to all of them. 

Like the intimacy of the betrayal May will feel — and May, there’s another thought he’s had to keep out, another thought that had no place until Skye was safe on the ground again.

Like that Skye got on the Bus with Ward while pretending to be interested in him romantically, while holding his hand. 

He shudders at the thought of how far she might have had to take that ruse, reminds himself that she said Ward hadn’t hurt her. 

“Ward didn’t hurt her,” he repeats it out loud as he feeds quarters into a vending machine and presses the button for a Sprite. “Ward didn’t hurt her.”

He repeats it again as he fills the ice bucket from the nearby machine, and shoves down his emotions as he approaches the room.

By the time he makes it back to the hotel room, Skye is standing between the two beds. She’s removed her jacket, run her fingers through her hair to tame it down, and he wonders if she was pacing the same as he was. 

She jumps at the sound of the door, but relaxes when she sees his face, and he thinks he should have told her where he was going, that she must have worried.

“I’m sorry,” he holds up the Sprite by way of explanation. “I didn’t know how long you’d be…” 

She nods and accepts the bottle, cracks it open, and takes a small sip. 

“Sorry,” she whispers. “That was....”

“You don’t need to apologize.” 

Skye nods, but looks unconvinced. 

“What do you need?” He asks the question as easily as he can, trying to keep his expression open, trying not to pressure her in any way. 

She just shakes her head, though, and drops slowly to sit in the edge of the bed. 

He matches her, sitting across from her so their knees almost touch in the small gap between the two beds.

“I had the chance to let him die. Mike hit him with some kind of...device, he was having a heart attack, and Garrett said that either I had to tell them how to unlock the drive, or Ward would die.” 

“You made the right choice.” 

“No I didn’t,” she almost laughs off his reassurance. “That was the wrong choice.” 

“You made the best choice you could make, Skye.”

“Sure.” 

She rolls her eyes and sips from her Sprite. 

“Can you tell me what happened? It’s okay if you need time.” 

“ It’s fine,” she shakes her head, and launches into her story — into every excruciating detail, into the way Ward kissed her, and he has  _ no business _ being so angry, but he is.

He’s furious: furious with Ward for being a Nazi, furious with himself for overlooking the red flags that he’s sure he saw. But he bites it back, shoves it down, and tries to be here for Skye. 

She talks until she’s hoarse, and it’s painful, but he can tell it helps, he can see her working through her feelings. 

“And then you were there,” she finishes, looking at him like he’s something more than he is, something better than he is.

(She’s always done that, and he tries — so hard — to be as good as she clearly thinks he is.) 

Her smile is dazzling but tired, exhausted really, and he watches her kind of droop onto her bed, on top of the duvet cover, like her body isn’t physically capable of being awake anymore. 

Even though it’s obviously unnecessary, he rises from his own bed and helps guide her head to a pillow, keeps a gentle hand on her shoulder as she settles.

“Thank you for coming for me,” she whispers.

“I’ll always come for you,” he promises, watches the way her lips curve against the pillow sham. 

When she shivers slightly and curls more tightly into herself, he slips off his jacket and lays it across her. It’s just to keep her warm, he tells himself, just because she doesn’t have a blanket, but there’s something comforting about doing something directly for her. 

It takes him a few moments to feel like he can leave her side, to remove his hand from stroking her arm through his suit jacket, but eventually he moves back to his own bed and collapses backwards.

He’s forgotten how to have a breakdown, it turns out, or maybe it’s just that it doesn’t feel like his breakdown to have. So he curls into himself and faces her bed, watches the curve of her back under his jacket, watches the slow rise and fall that accompanies each breath. 

When she stirs awake, sometime later, he watches her stretch, watches her press her nose against the collar before she turns to face him. 

“Hi,” she whispers from under the collar of his jacket, which is pulled up almost to her nose, like she’s hiding underneath a piece of him.

“Hi,” he smiles at her, eyes too soft as he watches her sit up. “How do you feel?” 

“Better,” she nods. “Thank you for…” 

It’s almost disappointing when she hands him back his jacket, but he takes it easily and sits up at the same time. Trip and FitzSimmons will be joining them here soon, so he needs to get a few more rooms, and it’s probably better no one sees them in a room together anyways.

  
  


2

He looks over at Daisy as the room shakes around him, sees her nose bleeding, and it’s just dumb luck that he’s there to catch her when she collapses. 

“Skye,” he calls her name as he falls to the ground with her, “Skye!”

Shaking fingers press to her pulse point, and he’s already calmed a little at knowing she’s alive by the time Bobbi makes it to his side. 

“What happened?” 

“She collapsed,” Coulson shakes his head, fingers still pressed to her neck, vision swimming from the sight of her blood. 

“Sir.” Bobbi rests a hand on his shoulder, shakes him slightly. “Let’s stretch her out. I’ll find something to put under her head.” 

“Here,” he shrugs out of his jacket and messily folds it in quarters before leaning up over Daisy’s outstretched body. Bobbi drops to her knees beside him and helps him lift Daisy’s head enough to fit the jacket underneath. 

“Skye,” he whispers her name again and runs the robotic hand down her arm, even though he can’t feel the touch himself. His right hand lands above her knee, unthinking. 

“She’s breathing normally,” he half-hears Bobbi tell him, which is something he already knows. 

“Yeah,” he answers dismissively. Breathing isn’t the same as being fine, though, and he’s still not good at seeing her blood. He’ll never be good at seeing her blood, at seeing it and not remembering the feel of it coating his fingers as she bled to death in his arms. 

Reflexively, he squeezes his hand around her leg, just above her knee, squeezes so he can feel her alive under him, since he can’t feel her with the robot hand. 

“Skye,” he calls her name again, again. “Skye, hey. Skye? Are you okay? Skye?”

“‘s Daisy,” she mumbles, and he doesn’t get it at first, has to put up with being mocked some more by his subordinates. 

He’s relatively good at that anyways, doesn’t mind being mocked so much. 

( _ Yes _ , this has been hard for him. Sue him.)

“ Right. Daisy,” he corrects himself, annoyed at how hard this whole change has been for him, at how it feels like she’s putting this  _ distance _ between them. 

(Like he’s one to talk.)

And of course she’s hearing things that they can’t, of course this is affecting her differently than it’s affecting humans. It somehow hurts every time he thinks about it, about the way that she’s different, about the way he’ll never really understand this whole... _ part _ of her. 

Distance, again. 

“I didn’t hear a sound,” he tells her, looking to Bobbi for verification and getting a nod before she runs off to do something at Fitz’s behest. 

“Ugh,” Daisy wipes her hand under her nose. “It’s like it was melting my brain.” 

“What do you need?” 

“Water?” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, helping slide her over so she can lean against a crate beside him while he sits on one of their equipment boxes and digs through the supplies for a bottle.

She drinks it in a few large gulps, and then he turns his attention to the first aid kit to locate a sterile wipe, something to get the blood off of her. 

“May I?” 

He holds up a wipe, and she nods her agreement, tilts her head back as he wipes at the blood drying around her nose. 

He drops the robot hand onto her knee, stabilizing himself as he cleans her up, and it’s good that there’s not more damage, but he wishes for something else he could do for her.

“It’s stopped,” she tells him, and he nods, grateful for that much at least. “You don’t have to be so worried.” 

“When you’re fainting and bleeding?” He sort of scoffs at the idea that he’d be anything but worried. 

“Coulson —”

“Skye,” he cuts her off, and then realizes his error. “Dammit. I’m sorry,” he manages. “I don’t mean to call you the wrong thing.” 

“I know you don’t,” she responds, and he’s not sure if he imagines it being clipped or not.

“I’ll do better, Daisy. I promise, I’ll do better.”  

“I know.” She closes her eyes and drops her head backwards. “Do you ever just… Do you ever want things to be done changing already? You can’t go back to what used to be normal, but…” 

“But to at least feel like you understand the new normal?” 

“Yeah,” she agrees. 

He consciously squeezes the robot fingers around her knee, the fingers of his  _ third  _ and certainly not final model, and it frustrates him that he can’t feel it. 

Her hand closes over the prosthetic for a moment, and he can’t feel it, can only see it — the sight of her fingers against these ones that aren’t really his. 

(They aren’t really his because this hand isn’t really is, is just a temporary step, while Fitz works on the fourth model. And he wonders if there will ever be such a thing as a new normal, if there will ever be a normal that isn’t just constant change.)

She smiles at him, gentle and easy, and then releases the robot hand. 

He sits back on his box, in front of the open first aid kit, but keeps his foot pressed against hers — one tiny point of contact.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” 

“Chill, Coulson. I’m fine.” 

He nods once, but can’t keep himself from fiddling with the bandages and wipes in the first aid kit. 

It’s pathetic, but when he touches her a little bit, he wants to keep doing it, to keep touching her, to keep a hand on her basically all the time. It’s a weakness, one particular to his feelings for her.

Later, he picks up his jacket and shakes it out, and for some absurd reason he presses the garment to his nose.

He can smell her shampoo on it, he swears, the clean scent of  _ her  _ underneath the century-old dust. 

And maybe it’s fanciful or maybe it’s real, but either way, he pulls his dirty jacket back on when they load everything back onto Zephyr1, thinking about the smell of her hair. 

It’s a weakness, he knows. 

But he’s never minded being a little weak.

  
  


3

“ Oh my  _ God _ , Coulson, I thought they were gonna catch us.” 

She laughs and leans into him as they hurry down the street, trying to walk quickly, but not so quickly as to draw attention to themselves. Not that Daisy in her tight white dress — strapless and plunging down to her navel — doesn’t draw attention.

The vision of her can’t  _ not  _ draw attention — white silk gown glowing in the moonlight, making her skin look more brown and soft and gorgeous in contrast. It’s been a bit of a problem for him all night, honestly, since she met him in the hangar with her hair artfully tousled around her face, her lips painted a perfect shade of red, and the inner curves of her breasts bared by the gown. 

He’d done better when they were around people, when he hadn’t had a glass of champagne, when he had more distractions. Now that they’ve ditched the party, he feels a little hopeless, a little like he can’t keep his eyes off of her.

The way she’s leaning into him, keeping herself pressed to him and her arm linked through his, isn’t helping, either, but he also knows it’s just because she’s cold.

They’d had to race out the back door — not the expected end to this mission, but a necessary escape after she’d copied files from the host’s computer. It means, though, that they’d abandoned her wrap at the coat check, and as they slow down their pace, he can see her shiver. 

Coulson wraps the the fingers of his right hand around her elbow and pulls her gently off the edge of the sidewalk, to stand in front of a little bench tucked up off the walkway.

“You’re cold,” he suggests, and then shrugs out of his tuxedo jacket before she has the chance to refuse it.

“Yeah,” she agrees, gladly letting him slide it over her shoulders. 

The jacket swallows her so that the sleeves come down well past her fingertips, and he can’t help looking on with a soft smile as she pushes them up her wrists enough to button it once. 

“Better?”

“Yeah, much warmer,” she agrees, and smiles at him like he’s done something much greater, much more selfless, than he actually has. 

“Good.” 

Even with the jacket on, the moonlight illuminates the strip of skin exposed by the plunging neck of her dress, and he clenches his jaw against the desire to touch her. 

It’s ridiculous that it’s affecting him this much, but he doesn’t normally see her like this — dressed up like someone that isn’t quite Daisy. Outside of their usual interactions, it turns out it’s much harder to keep his desire for her compartmentalized. 

It takes him a minute to realize that he’s touching her, gentle hand set carefully on her shoulder.

“I’m sad we didn’t get to dance,” Daisy tells him, pulling him from his thoughts and from the fact that he’s been staring at her for much too long, here on the deserted sidewalk in the moonlight. 

“I suppose it means you wasted all that practice time with Mack and Bobbi.” 

They’d given her some basics from SHIELD training, and he can’t honestly say that he’s not sad they didn’t get to put it to the test, either. 

“Yeah, but that’s not why I’m sad.” 

“No?” 

She laughs and shakes her head, turns her eyes down to her feet, but steps closer to him as she does. 

“I wanted to see your moves.” 

“My moves?” 

“Are you gonna tell me you don’t have any moves?” 

She captures his right hand and guides it to her waist as she speaks, and he finds himself unexpectedly pressed up against her. 

“No,” he manages, only slightly breathless. “No, no moves.” 

“ Come on, you must have at least  _ one _ move.” 

She’s almost his height in the shoes she’s wearing, almost looking him directly in the eyes, and then she leans forward enough to brush her nose against his. It’s  _ almost _ innocent except that it’s  _ really _ not, except that his whole body tingles at the feel of her breath on his face. 

“Are you gonna make me be the one to make the move, Phil?” 

“Daisy,” he sighs her name and then tilts his head enough to drag his lips against her cheek and her jaw and her chin. 

“That felt like a move,” she murmurs, her lips pressed against his cheek.

“Hmmm,” he agrees, a trembling moan near her ear, and then he kisses her, mouth closing over her with a level of confidence he hadn’t imagined he’d ever be able to muster when it came to kissing Daisy for the first time. 

She kisses back with just as much confidence, like there’s no doubt this is what they’re supposed to be doing right now. 

He’s still helpless, though, still at her mercy, still utterly weak for her, so when she pushes him backwards — down to a seated spot on the little concrete bench — he goes easily. 

And then she follows, seating herself comfortably across his lap and attacking his mouth again. 

Coulson stabilizes her with his robot hand on her back, and then drags his right hand up her arm to her shoulder, feeling the slight scratch of wool under his palm. It’s unexpectedly sexy, the feel of his jacket’s scratchy wool over the curve of her shoulder and down to the swell of her breast.

She moans into his mouth, arches into his touch as his hand slips from the wool to the bare skin on her chest, where his fingers spread wide enough to brush the inner curves of her breasts.

He’s the one that pulls back, fingers still pressed to her breastbone, robot hand firm against her lower back. 

“Daisy,” he murmurs her name, calling her attention. 

“Phil,” she answers. 

“Is this...” 

“ _ Yes _ .” 

It’s adamant and desperate, whispered against his lips as she dives forward for another kiss, only to be interrupted by Coulson’s phone ringing in his pocket. 

Their eyes lock for an endless moment between rings, and then he forces a swallow and slowly slides his hand down her chest, feeling soft skin down almost to her navel before he pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“Coulson,” he answers, and then has to bite back a gasp when Daisy’s lips close around his earlobe, but he can’t hold back the shiver.

“We’re ready with extraction at the intersection,” Bobbi informs him. 

“Buy us another five minutes,” Daisy whispers, more breath than sound. 

“ I…” He clears his throat and clenches his jaw, but all that comes out is a high pitched  _ whine _ when Daisy’s teeth nip at his ear. 

She pulls back and grabs the cell phone. 

“We’ll be five minutes,” she announces, and then turns it off.

He laughs at that, is still laughing when stashes the cell in his jacket pocket. 

“And what are we going to do with five more minutes?” 

“I have a few ideas,” she teases, and pulls his hand up to rest between her breasts before running her fingernails through his hair. 

  
  


+1

“I’m home,” he calls out as he enters their shared quarters, but the room appears to be empty. “Daisy?” 

He sets down his bag, ready to unpack after a long week away, and is surprised when she comes sauntering out of the bathroom in one of his black suit jackets. 

And nothing else. 

She walks from the bathroom out to lean against the wall across from him, as though putting herself on display.

He’d told her about this fantasy once, after their first time when she had worn his tuxedo jacket, of seeing her like this. Of...serving her like this.

“Daisy,” he whispers, eyes dragging slowly up the long, bare length of her legs to where his jacket falls at the top of her thighs. 

“Hi.” 

As he watches, she trails her fingers down her neck, between her breasts, down her belly until she hits the top button of the jacket, which sits a bit below her bellybutton. Her fingers play there, but she doesn’t unbutton it, just taps it gently with her fingernails.

“You look…” 

Coulson licks his lips as he watches her, can feel his jaw fall slightly open. 

“You like it?” 

“Yeah,” he answers, nodding too adamantly. 

“You wanna come over here?” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, taking the necessary steps to get to the wall.

He reaches forward and runs his right hand up her side, feeling out the curves of her under the scratchy wool of his jacket, and then drops to his knees in front of her. 

“Daisy,” he whispers as he leans forward to kiss the top of her right thigh, just beneath where the jacket falls. Slowly, he drags his forehead upwards, rubbing up against the jacket with his nose as he ventures up her stomach.

Coulson breathes in the scent of his jacket over her skin, of them together, and then brushes his cheeks against the wool before pushing the material up and following each freshly bared inch of skin with his lips.

“That’s good, Phil,” she sighs and leans further back against the wall, parting her legs more so that he can push the jacket higher up her thighs in order to lay a kiss at the top of her pubic mound.

Coulson moans against her skin when Daisy runs her fingernails through his hair, scratching softly against his scalp. 

At her gentle urging, he lifts her leg up, encouraging her to drop it over his shoulder, and then presses his open mouth to her, eager sucking kisses against her obvious arousal.

“I missed you,” Daisy whispers, and he just moans in response, unable to do more with his tongue otherwise occupied. 

She comes quickly, a sure sign she’s been waiting for him and thinking about this, but even as he can feel the pulse of her clit under his tongue, she doesn’t let up the pressure of her hands on the back of his head, anchoring him against her. 

He loses track of how long he spends kneeling at her feet, of how many times he can feel her come against his face, but when she finally tugs him backwards and drops her leg to the ground, his knees ache and his tongue his sore, and he’d still very much like to keep going. 

“You’re such a good boy, Coulson,” she tells him, nails hard on his scalp and her whole body flushed from orgasm. 

“Yes,” he agrees, pushes forward again to press another kiss against the top of her vulva, to rub his nose against her.

Daisy pushes him gently backwards, and he goes with it, lets her lay him out on the floor and then straddle him, her knees falling well below his hips so she can work his belt open and pull his slacks and boxers down  _ just far enough  _ to reveal his erection. 

Once he’s bared to her, Daisy crawls the rest of the way up his body, knees planted on either side of his hips, and he can feel her wet heat against the head of his cock. He keeps himself still, still with his hands by his sides, as she makes herself comfortable.

And then she pauses and walks her fingers up from her hips, over his jacket, and again plays with the buttons. 

“Do you want me to take it off?” 

“No,” he answers, shaking his head. “Leave it on.” 

She raises an eyebrow at that, enough to acknowledge that he’s asking for something naughty, but nods her head and sinks down over him, his jacket still buttoned just below her navel. 

“Fuck,” he grunts at the first taste of her over him, around him. Once he’s pressed all the way inside of her, she settles for a moment and reaches for his hands, places them at her hips on top of his jacket. 

“Touch me,” she requests as her hips begin to move, a slow rock as she warms up, and he nods adamantly, begins to once again run his hands up her body, to be aroused by the juxtaposition of the texture of his jacket over the soft curves of her body. Even if he can’t feel through his left hand, he’s learned to enjoy the sensations he gets, the visual of his hand on her.

“I missed you,” he whispers as he cups her breasts through the jacket; the material is too heavy to really feel her underneath, and he’s frustrated by it. 

“How much?” 

Her breath is already coming in sharp pants as her hips speed up over his. 

“ _ So much _ ,” is all he can manage for a moment as he slides his right hand from the jacket to the wide V of skin between her breasts. “I wanted to call you every night.” 

“I wish you could have,” she agrees, at her rhythm fails for a moment, almost stops. “I’m not used to falling asleep alone anymore.” 

“Daisy,” he whispers her name, wraps his left hand around her neck and pulls her down into a kiss, almost rough after a week away from each other. 

She’s the one that breaks it, that pulls back as though she remembers they were in the middle of something else, and she grins at him as she catches his hands and pushes them up beside his head. He finds himself pinned to the floor, Daisy stretched out on top of him, as she begins to move her hips again. 

In this position, he can see the movement of her breasts under his jacket, more of her skin where it disappears under the wool, and the tantalizing glimpses of her drive him a little crazy, make him buck his hips hard underneath her.

She comes quickly like this, working herself over him, and he follows so easily, like he’s been holding it back from the moment he saw her. 

After, she shucks off the jacket and he crawls out of the rest of his clothes, and somehow they make it to the bed, still tangled around each other. 

“We can debrief tomorrow,” she suggests, stifling a yawn as she spoons up behind him. 

“That sounds fine,” he agrees, eyes slipping closed, “Director Johnson.”

She laughs, the little sound she makes whenever he calls her that.

“I should have made you call me Director,” Daisy murmurs against his shoulder blade, getting a little puff of a laugh in response.

“Another time,” he suggests. 

“Count on it.”

  
  
  


 


End file.
